


Haunting, Haunted, Haunts

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Between seasons 3 and 4, F/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Rough Sex, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, So You Know It's Angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:00:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29881500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: “You’re here,” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice that Sam understands.Her eyes are a little unfocused, looking through him. He looks down at his hands, the dirt under his nails and the rusty stains coating his palms. The bloodstains aren’t real — or at least he doesn’t think they are. They shiver in and out of existence as he blinks away the not-quite-hallucinations that come with the high sometimes. He imagines the bloodstains fading, and his hands along with them, going translucent until he vanishes.Is there a word for when your entire body feels like a phantom limb?“I’m still here.”
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	Haunting, Haunted, Haunts

**Author's Note:**

> Title and some inspiration from an Against Me! song.

Sam’s mouth still tastes like blood when she comes back. She slams the door shut and he runs his tongue over his teeth, wondering if she’ll be able to taste the coppery-sharp, rotting-fruit tang of it on his lips. 

“You’re here,” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice that Sam understands. 

Her eyes are a little unfocused, looking _through_ him. He looks down at his hands, the dirt under his nails and the rusty stains coating his palms. The bloodstains aren’t real — or at least he doesn’t think they are. They shiver in and out of existence as he blinks away the not-quite-hallucinations that come with the high sometimes. He imagines the bloodstains fading, and his hands along with them, going translucent until he vanishes. 

Is there a word for when your entire body feels like a phantom limb?

“I’m still here.” 

(Is he?) 

He’s not sure. It’s hard to be sure of anything, these days. He skulks around at the edges of reality, haunting all these liminal spaces. He wakes up in abandoned houses where the dust swirls around him like ghostly figures in slanting rays of light. He sleeps in motels that feel like sun-bleached pastel-hued mausoleums. 

Days go by in strobes of washed-out neon and flickering fluorescent, glinting glass bottles and scraped-raw knuckles, punches from strangers that never land quite as hard as he wants them to — because even when he picks his fights staggering drunk and slurring, he can’t help but win. Dean taught him how to throw a punch and his dad taught him how to take one; if there’s anything Sam knows how to do, it’s how to keep fighting when logic would demand that he give up and die. 

Sometimes he isn’t sure whether he’s real. Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t. 

When the high kicks in and he can’t feel any pain, Sam can almost convince himself that he died when Dean did. When the comedown hits and everything aches, Sam wishes he was dead. 

Her lip is split, and she’s thumbing it absently as she comes closer. She’s still beautiful, even with the bruised-dark hollows around her eyes, the way they’re glazed-over and feverish, and the unnatural flush on her cheeks. 

She puts a hand on his chest, watching carefully as her warm palm makes contact, like she’s waiting for her fingers to go right through him, maybe. Her head lolls to one side, a little too loose. She twists her fingers in the fabric of his shirt and pulls him closer. 

He reaches out, grazes a curled knuckle over the swollen slash in her lip, and she shivers at the contact. 

“Did I hurt you?” he asks. His voice comes out low and heated, and he swears he didn’t mean it to sound so dirty. 

She kisses him desperately, throwing herself against him, and she tastes like blood. 

Sam picks her up, wrapping her legs around his waist, slamming her against the wall and rolling his hips, too much rough friction between them with their jeans, and she groans. He staggers to the couch, sits down hard and pulls her down against him with a hand tangled in her hair, sucking a bruise into the soft curve of her breast. She gives it right back: teeth sinking into his lip, nails raking his back, grinding down so hard it hurts. 

She was out of her skull at the time, and he doesn’t think she remembers telling him: _Not so nice. Make it hurt. When you’re nice I can almost forget you’re not Dean._

She almost rips his shirt getting it over his head, and then it’s a frantic scramble to get her tank top off, get her zipper open — she almost falls when he shoves her to her feet so he can push her jeans down her thighs. She sways into him, unsteady, fumbling with his belt, and when he slides a hand down between her legs she shudders, tilting forward to rest her forehead against his chest, shoulders shaking with a sob as he drags slick fingers up and down and in. 

“Sam,” she says, ragged and desperate. 

“I know. I’m right here.” 

Dean had snuck a glance at her in the rearview, reassuring himself that she was snoring, and he’d said it like a prayer: “When I can’t be here, Sammy, you gotta look out for her. Okay? Just… don’t leave her alone.” 

He’d brushed it off at the time — _yeah, right, like I’d just ditch her_ —but when things were really bad, after — when Sam came closer to the edge than he’d like to admit — he thought of that promise: _I’ll be here._

It’s her fault he can’t just fade away. 

He shoves her face-down on the couch, feels the throb of his pulse in his cock as she strains back against him — as she struggles. He grabs her hip with one hand, fingers pressing into bruises that echo their shape, biting into where her flesh gives so nicely under the too-tight grip. 

He shoves himself down, feeling the slippery-silky-softness of her body — _inside_ — where she’s wet and hot and undeniably alive.

They’re still here. They’re _here_ , and this is what people do when they’re alive, right? They fuck and they struggle and they hurt each other until they bleed. 

They’re here, and Dean’s not. 

He grits his teeth, grinds into her, feels the buzzing high under his skin and the convulsive shudder of her inhale under his body. He drags his fingernails up the side of her hip. She reaches back, grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair, and the sting is enough to make his eyes water. 

_I’m here, just like I promised._

It _hurts._

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please leave a comment! I would love to hear from you! 
> 
> You can also find me over on tumblr: @there-must-be-a-lock


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